


Chosen Again

by JordanGrant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JordanGrant/pseuds/JordanGrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco Malfoy, Seeker for the Pride of Portree, wins a match by caressing Harry during a frantic chase for the Snitch, Harry is furious. What is Malfoy up to? Harry is determined to find out, because if he's sure of anything, it's that Malfoy isn't telling the truth. Draco Malfoy can't really want *him* . . . or can he? Canon-compliant through HBP; written before DH was published.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chosen Again

**Chosen Again**

**by Jordan Grant**

**Many thanks to Regan_v for betaing this and helping me improve it.**

Written for ella_bane for the 2006 Reversathon fic exchange. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


The Cannons had been introduced first, so when Harry heard the announcement, he was hovering high above the pitch, his broom perfectly aligned with those of his team mates. 

"And last but not least, the Seeker for the Pride of Portree, Draco Malfoy!" 

Harry grimaced as a distant figure in purple robes shot out of a high tower and zipped around to circle the pitch. He wasn't surprised, of course. He'd known since summer training camp that he'd have to face Malfoy in competition. The prospect was unpleasant, to say the least. As far as Harry was concerned, Malfoy belonged in Azkaban. He might not have been able to kill the headmaster when it had come right down to it, but he'd let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. 

Draco Malfoy definitely didn't deserve to be playing professional Quidditch. 

But there he was, lined up with his own team mates now, his head turning slightly as he assessed the Cannons' players. He stopped at Harry, his eyes narrowing, his posture changing slightly, as if he smelled a challenge in the air. 

Well, he had. Malfoy had never bested Harry at Quidditch when they were at school, and he wasn't going to today. Harry was confident of that, even though part of him knew he perhaps shouldn't be. Malfoy did have a very good record this season, after all. For a first season as a professional Seeker, it was actually an astoundingly good record. The term 'Star Seeker' was showing up more and more in the sports column of the _Daily Prophet._ Harry was called that as well, of course. Had been, even before he'd played his first professional match. But he hated it. 

Malfoy probably lapped it up like it was his due, but he was in for a shock, today. Portree hadn't played the Cannons yet this year, Harry thought, determined. Harry was going to trounce him. Malfoy's winning streak was going to end, here and now. 

The announcements over, the players veered off from the line-up to take up their positions. Malfoy sped upwards while Harry circled a bit lower, his gaze alert for any glimpse of the Snitch, just released. But it was hiding somewhere in the bright sunlight below him. Angling his broom downward, Harry began searching, keeping one eye out for Malfoy. Sometimes, the best way to find the Snitch was to realise that the other Seeker had spotted it. 

Not this time, though. Just a few moments later, amid shouts from the stands over the latest Portree goal, Harry heard a tiny fluttering noise to his left. His instinct was to veer sharply, hand extended, but he'd learned from too many hard-won matches that the other team's Seeker would be watching for obvious moves like that. And Malfoy was watching him, yes. Harry could sense it. 

He guided his broom to curve moderately to the left, his gaze scanning the air ahead. 

Malfoy must have thought the turn was suspicious, regardless. Suddenly he pulled in beside Harry, his broom so close that their legs were almost touching. "Potter." 

Harry didn't answer. Malfoy was just trying to distract him. It wasn't a common tactic, but it didn't surprise him that Malfoy would stoop to it. Where was the Snitch? He sped up a little, his gaze sweeping from left to right. 

Malfoy kept pace with him, his voice casual as he kept talking. "You ignored me at training camp and then again at the season opener, but I don't think you can really do so, here." 

_Oh, yes I can,_ thought Harry. It wasn't true, anyway, what Malfoy had said about the party the league had thrown to kick off the season. Harry hadn't ignored Malfoy. He just didn't have anything to say to him. Or maybe, he had _too_ much to say to him, but knew that a work-related function wasn't the time or place for any of it. And neither was the pitch. They both had a job to do, here. 

The broom beside him edged even closer, matching him turn for turn as they veered together. The announcer said something about _neck and neck_ , and speculated that the Snitch must be near, but Harry hadn't seen it again, and he didn't think Malfoy had, either. He was just trying to bother Harry. He knew Harry couldn't stand him. He thought that flying so close they were almost joined at the hip would give him some sort of advantage. 

Like Harry was about to let a little proximity bother him. He was a professional. The season opener was proof enough of that. Harry had wanted to march across the room and slug Malfoy for what he'd done that night in Hogwarts. But he'd controlled himself. 

Malfoy's leg moved slightly, his thigh rubbing against Harry's. 

The contact sent a rush of heat through Harry. Anger, of course, but Harry didn't veer off. He wasn't about to let Malfoy think he could drive Harry away from the Snitch with underhanded tactics like those. Not that Harry was sure they were on the Snitch's tail, any longer. Where the hell _was_ it? 

"Nothing to say? Hmmm?" 

"Your Seeking skills haven't improved." 

Draco chuckled at that, still keeping perfect pace with Harry. Now his leg was doing more than rubbing thighs. Malfoy's ankle was against his as well, moving in a steady rhythm that reminded Harry of a caress. It was ludicrous, at the speed they were going by then. 

It was also rather arousing, Harry thought, annoyed. He kept his private life pretty much to himself, but Malfoy had probably paid people off to give him information about Harry, so that he could devise a nasty tactic like this. Getting Harry hard while Harry was trying to make sure his team won the match! He'd probably heard that Harry hadn't gone out with any men, lately. He'd figured that Harry would be desperate for something besides his own hand, by now. 

And Harry _was_ , wasn't he? Otherwise, he'd never find Malfoy touching him interesting in the least. So what if Malfoy had matured into an attractive man, just the type Harry usually liked? Pale; strong but lean; long, elegant fingers . . . 

Of course, Malfoy probably knew all that, too. From his sources. And now he was using that information against Harry, just so he could win a Quidditch match! 

It was low, even for Malfoy. But for some reason, Harry was still hot and bothered. 

He'd had enough of it. The Snitch wasn't down here anyway. Harry pulled up suddenly, shooting skywards, but Malfoy, damn him, stuck right by his side, even pushing him over a bit, he was flying so close. Hip to hip, now. Harry vaguely realised that the commentator had noticed them speeding along side by side. 

"Shove off!" Harry said, shouting to be heard over the wind rushing around them. 

Malfoy, of course, didn't. "Am I bothering you?" 

Harry didn't know how Malfoy could make his own shout sound so seductive. But he had no time to think about it, since he'd just spotted the Snitch flashing past several dozen yards ahead. Finally. But why did Malfoy have to be right beside him like this? 

For a split second, Harry considered ignoring the Snitch just so that Malfoy wouldn't realise how close it was. As had happened in school, he was too busy taunting Harry to pay attention to his Seeker responsibilities, so he had no idea that the end of the game might soon be within reach. 

Then again, Harry knew well enough from their previous matches that he was a better, faster flyer than Malfoy. Leaning forward, he zoomed ahead of the other man, his gaze glued to the Snitch as it swerved and veered. Harry followed its every move. 

Too soon for his liking, Malfoy was beside him again. Ignoring him, Harry reached out a hand for the Snitch. Just a few more inches and he'd be able to snatch it from the air . . . 

But Malfoy's arm was stretched out alongside his. Malfoy, with his longer limbs and greater reach. 

Harry pushed his broom to go even faster to compensate. No matter that they were heading toward a tower now, and dangerously close to it. 

His fingers brushed the fluttery wings of the Snitch as it sped ahead of them. So close. _So close . . ._

Suddenly, Malfoy's hand retreated from its outstretched position. It didn't go far. Malfoy slid his fingers down across Harry's, right down to his wrist and then up inside his sleeve, his touch teasingly light. 

A jolt shot through Harry, straight up his arm and down to his crotch, his prick surging to full size again. 

Startled, Harry jerked slightly on his broom. 

And that was all it took. Malfoy sped ahead of him, his hand sliding free from Harry's sleeve, and then a huge shout went up from the stands. A shout Harry recognised from the many times he'd been the one to cause it. 

He didn't need to look to be sure what had happened, but he looked anyway. Malfoy had the Snitch in hand and was holding it high over his head as he slowed his broom and hovered near the edge of the pitch, alongside the tower Harry had noticed the moment before. 

Harry felt sick, all the way through. His first loss this season, and it had to be to Draco Malfoy. 

But he was a professional now, so he knew what had to be done. Slowing his own speed, he pulled up alongside the other Seeker and thrust out a hand. It almost choked him to say the usual words, considering just _how_ Malfoy had won the match. _Professional,_ Harry reminded himself. Besides, he wanted to gather up the shards of his dignity. This might not do it, but it would probably help. "Well-played," he said. 

Malfoy shook Harry's hand, his thumb rubbing Harry's palm in a way that was . . . Harry actually didn't know. It certainly wasn't part of a normal handshake, but neither did it seem like a taunt. And the look in Malfoy's eyes . . . that wasn't what Harry had expected, either. No gloating, though somewhere mixed into the silver there was a certain level of satisfaction. Harry didn't understand it. 

He yanked his hand free and flew off to join his team, wishing that handshake had gone differently. The caress up in the air . . . he could understand his own reaction to that, sort of. He'd been surprised, that was all. But he'd known before the handshake that Draco would be touching him again. 

And still, that same blazing jolt of desire had made his cock jump with excitement. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


The only thing that was worse than losing to Malfoy, Harry thought later, was losing in front of Ron. Still a Chudley Cannons fan, he never missed a match . . . at least not one played in England. He and Harry sometimes went out for drinks afterwards. To celebrate. 

They went out to a pub after the Portree match as well, but there was nothing festive about it. "Rotten luck," Ron kept on saying. "You almost had it. And then, I don't know, you sort of jerked up on your broom a bit. Was a bit far for me to see exactly what happened. Think your broom needs looking at?" 

_No, I need looking at,_ Harry thought caustically. _By a qualified professional._

But that was a bit harsh, he knew. No doubt about it, Malfoy _was_ a very attractive man. And he knew how to use that, obviously. Harry just felt ten times a fool that he'd let that get to him. He'd feel a fool if it happened off the pitch, but to let it ruin the match? To let Malfoy win? 

But that was the only way he could win, wasn't it? Using underhanded tactics. 

Harry suddenly wondered if Malfoy did that at all his matches, and if _that_ was why Portree had been having such a stellar season. 

But no, that couldn't be the case. One of those other Seekers would have complained, surely. Harry had certainly thought about it. Too humiliating, though. Word would get out. He could just imagine the reporting. 

_The Chosen One appears to have been chosen again, this time by the star seeker of the Pride of Portree, Draco Malfoy. Reliable sources indicate that Harry Potter's loss to him Saturday past was occasioned by a caress, of all things. Relationships among players aren't unknown, but several former Hogwarts students attest that Potter and Malfoy seem an unlikely pair. Is there romance in the air, and if not, would Potter like there to be? For our readers' poll on that very question, turn to page 6 . . . ._

No, best to keep it to himself and hope he didn't have to face Malfoy in competition again this year. Unfortunately, it looked likely. Their two teams were the favourites to contend for the British Isles Championship. But, perhaps Portree would lose a match between now and then. 

Harry could hope so, anyway. 

He never did explain to Ron what had happened in the air. He just said that yeah, it was rotten luck and nobody could fly perfectly all the time. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


At least his team mates didn't give him a hard time about the loss. Not that they'd had a lot of practice losing since Harry came on board, but they were good about it, all the same. "We all lost, not just you," said Thad Evers the next day at practice. "The Beaters could have knocked Malfoy out from beside you, and they didn't. This isn't a solo sport, Harry." 

He was right, Harry knew. The actual loss wasn't what bothered him. It was the way he had lost, letting Malfoy get to him like that. "Yeah," said Harry, nodding like he agreed with Thad. "Best to just get ready for the match against the Arrows, I suppose." 

Practice that Monday went well enough, but Harry was surprised afterwards to see Draco Malfoy waiting outside the pitch. Harry looked left and right, trying to figure out who Malfoy was meeting, but nobody else was around as the other man walked up and held out his hand. "I meant to say well-played, as well." 

Harry stared at that hand, not believing for a second that Malfoy had come here out of delayed courtesy. 

After a moment, Malfoy dropped his arm. "You look tired." 

"Six hours of practice will do that." Harry felt his eyes narrowing. "Shouldn't you be on the isle of Skye with your own team?" 

"We always take Mondays off." 

"Well, we don't," said Harry shortly. "So if you'll excuse me, I need to get home and eat." 

"Let me take you out for a meal." 

Harry gaped, then realised he must look daft with his mouth hanging open. "What makes you think I'd let you do any such thing?" 

Malfoy's eyes glittered. "Well, you'll be playing Portree again in just a few more weeks. Perhaps you should get used to being near me, Potter. So it doesn't affect you, next time?" 

That actually wasn't a bad idea, but the fact that Malfoy had volunteered it made Harry suspicious. "Yeah? Well, why would you want to help me out, eh?" 

Malfoy's voice dropped to a husky drawl. "Maybe I'd like to see if I can make you react like that when we're off the pitch." 

Harry stepped back. _React like that?_ "I don't know what you're talking about," he said stiffly. "You startled me, that's all." 

"In that case, I'd like to startle you again." Malfoy suddenly smiled, the expression reaching his eyes. "Look, it's really very simple. I tried to get to know you at training camp, but you weren't having any of it. And then again at the season opener . . . and you walked away from me while I was still talking. I didn't mean to touch you during the match, but once we were close enough, it seemed like a way to make you notice me." 

"Pull the other one, Malfoy." 

"Oh, I'd like to." 

The way Malfoy swept his gaze up and down Harry was unmistakable. Harry felt his breathing quicken as his groin tightened the way it had during the match. And this time, Malfoy wasn't even touching him. But Harry didn't want to be aroused, not by a person like Draco Malfoy. The idea ought to make him feel ill, in fact. 

Malfoy seemed to realise that a seductive voice and bedroom eyes weren't going to get him anywhere. "All right. How about this? You come out with me a few times. Nothing more than that, unless you'd like to take it farther. And in exchange, I'll promise that when we play for the championship, I'll behave myself." 

Considering that Harry had been worrying about the championship, that wasn't a bad deal. If he could trust Malfoy, that was. Good one. He pushed past the other man, trying to get to the Apparition boundary that surrounded the stadium. Malfoy's hand on his arm stopped him. "Come on. What do you have to lose?" 

"Nothing," said Harry coolly, "but I'm not a fool. You're playing some game of your own with me." 

Malfoy squeezed Harry's forearm. Even through cloth, the caress reminded Harry of the final moment in Saturday's Quidditch match. 

"You don't believe me?" 

"Not one word." 

Malfoy's lips curled as he let go of Harry's arm. "I can respect that. But don't think I'm through pursuing this." 

Harry shook his head. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here, unless it's to get the Cannons' play book or something--" 

A sharp laugh interrupted him. "Look in the mirror sometime, Harry. You are aware that I like men, aren't you?" 

"Bugger the mirror. I don't care how much you like men. You can't stand me. And I feel the same way." 

"You can't stand yourself?" 

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant." 

Malfoy's smile grew thin. "I thought nine years might be long enough that you could finally let it go." 

_Let it go?_ What nerve. "You ought to be in jail for what you did that night!" 

"I was sixteen, Potter. Sixteen and stupid, I admit it. Thank Merlin the Ministry doesn't treat juveniles as though they have the judgment of adults. Because slashing someone to ribbons is a punishable offence too, you know!" 

Harry bared his teeth. "I didn't know what that spell even did!" 

"Is that your way of saying you were sixteen and stupid?" 

"At least I didn't almost kill Katie Bell and Ron! What you did was premeditated, Malfoy. It wasn't a case of not knowing what you were doing." 

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but Harry didn't want to hear it. He pushed past Malfoy, and this time, the other man let him go. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


Harry almost expected to see Malfoy outside the stadium the next night, and the next, but the other man seemed to have given up despite what he'd said. It worried Harry, in a way. What was Malfoy up to? Was he just trying to make Harry nervous about the championship match? Well, if that had been his aim, he'd succeeded, probably beyond his wildest dreams. All Harry could think about was that leg rubbing his, and the soft feel of those fingers sliding up inside his sleeve. He was getting hard thinking about it, in fact, and his morning wank was less satisfying than ever. 

The only thing that seemed to help was fantasising about Malfoy touching more than his arm and leg. 

"Mind on the game, Potter," snapped the head chaser as he swooped past. 

Good advice, and the truth was that Harry's concentration had been questionable all week long, but more so after that conversation on Monday. He almost wished he'd gone out with Malfoy as asked. Maybe then, he'd have got over this strange obsession. 

Though his cock knew there was probably only one way to get over it, and it didn't involve dinner. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


That Saturday, they played the Kenmare Kestrals. Their emerald green robes reminded him of Slytherin, which of course brought Malfoy to mind. At one point, Harry could even swear that he saw the man in the stands, but chalked it up to an overactive imagination. 

_Mind on the game._ This time, he was the one reminding himself. 

The Cannons did win the match, but not by much. Harry had narrowly missed the Snitch twice when emerald robes in the corner of his vision had distracted him. Definitely, this thing with Malfoy was getting out of hand. Harry had to do something about it, before he ended up ruining a promising season. 

He took his time showering afterwards, his mind spinning in circles as he tried to figure out what exactly it was he should do. 

"Potter." 

At first Harry thought he was imagining the voice, too. Made sense, as he couldn't seem to stop thinking about Malfoy. But no, the man was actually in the visiting team's locker room, leaning against the wall as Harry stepped from the showers. 

Harry adjusted the towel slung around his hips, and looked around, but all his team mates had left by then. "Who let you in here?" 

Malfoy shrugged. "I have some influence." His grey eyes looked calculating, Harry thought. "Your game seemed off, Potter." 

_Your fault,_ Harry wanted to say, but for all he knew, Malfoy would enjoy an admission like that. Ignoring the other man, Harry stepped over to his locker, facing it as he dropped the towel and shimmied into pants and jeans. He certainly wasn't going to stand there almost naked, but asking Malfoy to leave would have felt like some kind of admission. Harry didn't want to admit that he was bothered. 

He grabbed another towel from the top of his locker and rubbed it all over his head, drying his hair. 

"No wonder it comes out quite so mussed," said Malfoy in a voice full of humour. "Not that I'm complaining. It gives you a certain just-bedded look that's really quite appealing." 

The mere mention of bed made Harry's cock start to lengthen, even though he'd wanked twice that morning. Twice, to fantasies of the man now standing in front of him. "That's not what you used to think." 

"Oh, back in school?" Draco's nostrils flared. "It took me a while to sort out that I preferred men at all. And then while the war was going on, it was a bit difficult to see you as anything but an enemy. Even after Snape smuggled me out of the country and I had time to think about what I was doing with my life." 

It was an opening to talk about those hard years between the death of Dumbledore and the final end of the war, but Harry didn't want to hear about Malfoy's experiences abroad. He wanted even less to think about Severus Snape. He'd been loyal to the Light after all, and had killed Dumbledore on the man's own orders, but Harry's memories of that awful night still stung, and not even Snape's death in the war had really changed that. 

"You expect me to believe you see me as something besides an enemy, now? Right." 

Malfoy crossed his arms. "Let's just say that I'd like to see more of you, Potter. Literally." 

Harry felt his balls tighten at that admission. Probably Malfoy's intention. He was only here to get to Harry, so Portree could win the league championship. 

But clearly, ignoring Malfoy wasn't working out so well. It was time for Harry to start fighting back. He turned his back on Malfoy and shrugged on a shirt. "Maybe we should get together, after all." 

Well, at least the comment seemed to rattle Malfoy slightly. After a pause, the other man spoke again, his voice a lot less suave this time. "Dinner, then?" 

"I have something else in mind." Harry waited just long enough so that Malfoy might think he meant a fuck. "Let's go flying." 

"Flying." 

"And you can touch me again, if you can get close enough," Harry added. Best not to add that that was the whole point, and not because of Harry's recent fantasies about sex on a broom. The idea here was to learn all Malfoy's tricks, so he couldn't take Harry by surprise at the championship. 

He didn't exactly expect Malfoy to jump at the offer, not when it would obviously lose him the advantage he'd exploited during their recent match. But neither did he expect the reply he got, either. 

"I need more than that." 

"Well, I'm not offering to fuck you straight off," said Harry. "We can see where it leads, and that's that." 

"I meant dinner." 

"I don't think that's a good idea." Harry shrugged. "It's flying, and maybe more if I feel like it, but I don't think I'm ever going to want to go out in public with you, Malfoy." 

"I'm good enough to fuck but not good enough to date?" 

"I haven't decided you're good enough for either. We can see where it leads. If I have to say it again, even the flying will be off." 

Malfoy twisted a lip. "Should have known you'd be the type to play hard to get." 

Harry shrugged on a jumper. "I'm not playing. So, where to? It's not going to do our professional reputations any good to be seen practising together." 

"Hogwarts then," said Malfoy, turning away. "See you there." 

With that, he was gone. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


The walk from Hogsmeade to the castle was shorter than Harry remembered, but the one down to the pitch seemed longer than ever. Harry frowned as he strode steadily across the lush, green grass. He didn't want to be here. Almost hadn't come. Years had passed, but it still hurt to think of this place, of all the things that had happened here, the last one the worst of all. After Harry had destroyed all the Horcruxes and killed Voldemort, he could have come back here to complete his education, but he hadn't been able to bear the thought. Too many memories. Too much pain. 

He'd have said _no_ to Malfoy's suggestion if he'd been given any sort of chance. Of course, he could have refused to follow. Could have gone home and forgot all about Malfoy. Except, he couldn't have. Not with the championship looming ahead. Refusing to come fly at Hogwarts was like admitting he was scared of Malfoy's underhanded tactics. And he wasn't scared. He was going to get used to being near Malfoy if it was the last thing he did. 

Malfoy was already up in the air, executing dives and loops. Showing off. When he saw Harry he sped down to ground level and hovered, right in front of him. "Took you long enough. Where's your broom?" 

Harry plucked it from a pocket and restored it to normal size. 

At that, Malfoy's eyebrows went up. "You walked? Are you daft?" 

"Shut up, Malfoy." It wasn't the other man's business if Harry hadn't rushed. Flying would have got him here sooner, but since he didn't want to be here at all, of course he'd walked. Malfoy, however, didn't deserve to know that. Not any of it. "Well? Get your arse in the air and show me what you've got." 

Malfoy didn't move, except to shift on his broom a little. The adjustment made the fabric covering his thighs tighten. Harry hurriedly looked up, wondering why he was looking _there_ , anyway. 

"Anything in particular you'd like?" The question sounded breathy to Harry, like Malfoy was asking about more than Quidditch. 

Feeling like he was gathering all his nerve in one fist, Harry nodded. "Like during that last match we played." 

"You liked that, eh?" 

_No, I hated it,_ Harry thought, but he knew he was lying to himself. Parts of him had liked it a lot. One part in particular. "Yeah, I liked it," he said thickly, because the only other reason he could give to repeat it was that he wanted to get used to it, for the sake of strategy. Malfoy would balk at that. He was out here to make Harry even more uncomfortable, not help him get over the way Harry reacted to him. 

"Mmm, Quidditch-as-foreplay," murmured Malfoy. "Can't complain about that." 

Tired of talking about it, Harry headed into the air. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


A hand on his arm was the least of it, this time. As far as Harry could tell, Malfoy was intent on seduction. Perhaps he really did want to get Harry into bed, and counted this the best chance he'd ever had. Or even more likely, Malfoy would get some sort of perverse thrill out of screwing Harry over even while he was screwing him. Because this wasn't only about sex; Harry was sure of it. It was about the championship too, just as much. 

A hand on his arm, yes. Slipping inside his sleeve, caressing the soft underside of his elbow. But more. A thigh brushing his, followed by fingers which stole up and over his muscle to stroke the hardness springing up between Harry's legs. A pair of lips, dropping light kisses on his nape. 

And this, while they spun toward the ground at dizzying speeds. 

Harry finally pulled up, panting, and yanked himself off his broom. It wasn't working, this strategy. The more Malfoy touched him, the fiercer Harry's desires became. 

"Enough for today?" Malfoy's grin was cocky. 

He almost groaned, the mere sound of that word making him even hornier. Definitely, it had been too long since he'd shagged anyone. Or been shagged. 

"So, how about that dinner, then?" 

Harry saw then what he should have seen earlier. Flying alone wasn't going to get Malfoy out of his system. Only one thing would do that. Afterwards, Harry wouldn't want Malfoy like this. He'd be all right to fly against him. 

But that didn't mean he wanted to socialize with the man. 

"How about just a fuck?" asked Harry in a careless voice. "That's what you want, isn't it?" 

Malfoy looked stunned. And also strangely like he'd been stepped on, but that expression lasted only a second. His features hardened. "Sure thing, Potter. I've wanted to fuck you for longer than you'd believe." 

Harry's smile was grim. This would be something new for him. Sex for the mere sake of it. Usually he tried to find men he had something in common with. That probably explained why didn't date much. Not too many people could get past their initial impulse toward hero-worship, or understand the things he'd been through. 

With Malfoy, none of that mattered. Though what the other man had just said did. Harry laughed, and made sure it sounded derisive. "You aren't fucking me, Malfoy. You should be so lucky. No, I'll have you writhing beneath me, begging for more. And if you give me any rubbish about how you don't bottom, you can just--" 

"Oh, but I love to bottom," said Malfoy, almost crooning. "You shouldn't take things so literally, Harry." 

"Figured out my name, finally?" 

The only answer Malfoy had to that was a simple one: "My place or yours?" 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


"Nice," said Malfoy as he walked around Grimmauld Place. Harry hadn't wanted to bring him there, but he wanted even less to set foot in Malfoy Manor, or chance a room-for-hire where their liaison might show up in the scandal rags. 

Harry doubted that the other man thought the house was _nice_ at all, but he wanted into Harry's pants. _You live in a dump, Potter,_ probably wouldn't help his cause. Though actually, it wouldn't have hurt it, either. Harry just wanted to get over his obsession for Malfoy. He could care less about the rest of it. 

"My bedroom's through here," said Harry, indicating it. 

"Not going to offer me a drink first?" Malfoy's smile was dazzlingly bright, even in the dim light. "Show me some courtesy." 

"This isn't a date." 

Malfoy pouted, but followed Harry into a room and over to a spacious bed. 

"Get undressed, then," said Harry, starting to himself. 

"You haven't heard of foreplay, I see." 

"Got plenty of that on the pitch." Now that he knew he was going to fuck Malfoy, Harry felt less restrained about where he rested his eyes. "For you too, it looks like. You're ready." 

"You know, there's more to making love than coming as fast as you can get it over with." 

"Good thing we're only fucking, then." 

"There's more to fucking, too!" 

"Not with you," said Harry, kind of liking the way the words rolled off his tongue. Malfoy deserved to know that he was just being used, thought Harry. Deserved that and worse, after all he'd done. 

"Oh, stop with the sweet-talk or I might swoon," snarled Malfoy. 

"Just shut up and get your arse on the bed." 

Harry was slightly surprised when Malfoy proceeded to strip off and get on his hands and knees. _He must really want something from me,_ thought Harry. _Something besides this . . ._

He wished that the sight of Malfoy's bare arse could be a turn-off. But no, of course it wasn't. His new obsession saw to that. Malfoy's hips were slim and compact, and his cheeks were nicely rounded. Inviting. Harry's cock rose at the sight, no matter that he shouldn't want anyone who had done the things Malfoy had. 

Angry as he was, though, it just wasn't in Harry to treat a man badly in bed. His voice gruff, he asked if Malfoy preferred lube or spells. _Magic,_ said Malfoy, his own voice almost a pant. _Your magic._

He said it like Harry's magic was a turn-on, but maybe it was. 

Three words and one quick swirl of his wand later, Malfoy was ready. By then, Harry's cock was straining so hard that when he popped it free of his pants, it practically leapt toward Malfoy. 

Harry couldn't wait. He usually took his time and had more finesse, but now, he literally couldn't take the time. Grabbing Malfoy's hips with both hands, he knelt behind him and pushed in fully, biting back a moan at the sudden warm pressure that enveloped him. His thighs straining, he lunged forward still more. Wanting more. Wanting everything. 

Malfoy gasped. Something incoherent, his back arching as Harry pressed into him. But when Harry tried to pull out, Malfoy began shaking his head. "No, stay. Let me . . ." 

Malfoy's pale arm reached out fumbling in his clothes on the floor beside the bed. Then his wand was in his hand and he was whispering spells. 

Amazing spells, Harry soon found out. Malfoy began to clamp down on Harry's cock, squeezing, massaging him by clenching first one muscle group and then another. Now Harry was the one gasping. Base to tip and then right back down, the rippling pressure ran over his cock in delicious waves. Like a hand-job, only hotter and tighter, and far more intense. Harry'd never felt anything quite like it. 

He wondered where Malfoy had learned a thing like that. And how long it had taken him to get so good at it. And who he'd been with, those times. 

Soon, the steady pulses of pressure were just too much for Harry to withstand. Falling atop Malfoy, his chest against the other man's back, Harry ran his hands underneath them and found Malfoy's cock. Hard, turgid, moisture welling at the tip. 

"Together," gasped Harry, feeling like his head might burst, the pleasure was so intense. Touching Malfoy had doubled it, at least. He began pulling in and out, then, setting up a rapid pace, matching it stroke for stroke to the tempo of his hand on Malfoy's cock. 

They didn't quite come together, but it was close. Draco was making a high noise, not quite a squeal, and spilling over Harry's hands just before Harry's own orgasm hit him with the force of a thunderclap. That sudden, that intense. 

And through it, Draco was still massaging him this time stroking in only one direction. Base to tip, base to tip, like he was trying to milk Harry's cock. 

Afterwards, Harry collapsed to the side, breathing heavily, unable to really believe that it had been so good. _With Malfoy._

"I'm starving," said the other man, rolling over and sitting up. He laid a hand on Harry's knee. It felt good, Harry thought, still a little dazed. "Still going to refuse to share a meal?" 

Somehow, dinner with Malfoy didn't sound so unacceptable, not now. Harry reached for the mobile he kept in the night table, and rang for some pub food to be delivered. 

He expected Malfoy to make a smart remark about the Muggle world, but instead the man had that stepped-on look again. "You're ashamed to be seen with me?" 

"Maybe I just don't feel like losing my job." 

Malfoy laughed. "Oh, please. They aren't going to sack you for having a meal with another player. Especially not you. Don't you read the financials? The Cannons' revenue is up five-fold since you joined the team." 

Harry did know that, but nobody else had said as much to his face. His friends pretended they didn't know that he was wanted for his name as much as for his skills. 

Strange, that Malfoy, of all people, should come off looking like a forthright sort of bloke. 

"Maybe I don't want to win by losing you _your_ job." 

Malfoy shrugged. "Like I even need the job, Potter. Let them sack me. Though I doubt they would, with my record this season." 

Not forthright now, Harry noted. Something about Malfoy's tone was off, but Harry couldn't put his finger on it. He just knew that there was more going on here. More than Malfoy was saying. 

Harry stood and stretched, pulling jeans over his bare hips. No shirt, but that was deliberate. He liked the way Malfoy was looking at him, even though he shouldn't, not knowing as he did that Malfoy was playing at something. 

"Downstairs. I'm not going out with you." 

Malfoy wrinkled his nose, casting cleaning charms on both of them before he got dressed. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


Harry had thought that once would do it. One good fuck, and he'd have Malfoy out of his system. But it hadn't worked out that way.He wanted Malfoy again, and not just because the man made such a good bottom. Actually, that wasn't it at all. He wanted Malfoy on top, now. And he wanted to suck him, and be sucked, and he wanted to throw Malfoy up against a wall and grind against him until they both shuddered and came. 

Basically, he wanted it all. With Malfoy. 

He got it all, too, over the days and weeks that followed. Harry still wasn't sure what Malfoy's game was, so he let the other man continue to pursue him. Let Malfoy do all the chasing. Maybe he'd let slip something. 

He didn't, though. He came to Harry'sgames whenever Portree wasn't playing at the same time. He showed up at Harry's house several times each week. He never stopped suggesting that they go out in public. He didn't seem to care in the least that it wouldn't look right for rival Seekers to be involved. 

And were they ever involved. This wasn't about the championship any longer, not for Harry. It had started off that way, of course. All he'd wanted was to get used to Malfoy being near him, so it wouldn't spook him during a game again. That hadn't worked, though. If anything, getting close to Malfoy had made his reactions to the man even worse. Now, all he had to do was smell Malfoy's distinctive cologne, and his cock would swell. 

They went flying several more times, always using the Hogwarts pitch, always at times when nobody else would be around. One touch from Malfoy, and Harry would lose track of everything except how much he wanted the man. It got so bad that once he even tackled Malfoy in mid-air, forcing him down to the ground, where Harry fell on top of him, fully clothed, and thrust and thrust until they were both satisfied. 

The Snitch had buzzed around them, sounding like it was twittering at the sight. 

When Malfoy had come, he'd languidly reached up a hand and grabbed it, softly saying, "I win." 

And that was the problem, wasn't it, thought Harry sourly. This wasn't about winning or losing any longer, not for Harry. Malfoy was surprisingly good company. Wittily sarcastic, but not cruel with it any longer. It was as though the years since the war had tempered the worst of his personality. A good lover, and not just because he was so skilled at topping and bottoming both. He was a considerate lover. He liked to cuddle afterwards, Harry had learned. And most of all, perhaps, Malfoy was someone who knew Harry for himself, flaws and all. Perhaps because he'd resented Harry for so many years, he didn't look through rose-coloured glasses at him, now. 

That had been Harry's main problem with men he'd tried to date. They never really came to know him. The gloss of the Chosen One, of the Slayer of Voldemort . . . all of that stood between them like pane of coloured glass, obscuring everything. 

He didn't have that problem with Malfoy. 

He also, however, didn't have anything he could really rely on, did he? Because as far as Malfoy was concerned, this all might be--hell, probably _was_ \--about the championship. He was going to play that same trick again, caressing Harry to break his concentration, and Portree was going to take the game. 

Harry knew it. It was there in Malfoy's evasive answers, in his tone of voice sometimes whenever the subject of Quidditch came up. The other man was hiding something big. Harry just _knew_. 

But still, Harry couldn't stop wanting him. More than sexually, too, now. The more time he spent with Malfoy, the more he felt like he was falling into something serious with the man. 

But there was no future in it, not considering that Malfoy was the one who was using Harry for his own ends. 

Finally, in desperation, Harry said _yes_ one evening when Malfoy suggested they go out for drinks. He knew it was underhanded of him, but it was all he had. Maybe if they were seen in public a few times, if they were obviously involved, Malfoy _would_ get sacked from Portree. And then at least Harry would know if any of this was real, or if it was only about winning. 

"Yes," Malfoy had repeated, sounding dumbfounded. "You're willing to go out in public with me. Be _seen_ with me. The man who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, who almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley, who didn't have the sense to see that Snape was trying to help him, who--" 

Harry blinked. Of course he'd thrown all that at Malfoy, weeks ago. But he'd come to understand, since, that Malfoy wasn't the same person any longer. He'd grown up. Harry wasn't ashamed of their relationship. Well, not unless Malfoy ended up making a fool of him. Harry would know soon, if his plan worked. Malfoy would get the boot, and if this had only ever been about winning, then he'd drop Harry like a broken wand. 

But maybe, just maybe, it had started one way for Malfoy, and had become something else. Just like with Harry. 

"I didn't want to go out before," he said carefully, "because I was still angry about all that, yes. This, what we have, I wanted it to only be about sex. But now . . ." Harry shrugged. "Let's go have a drink, yes. I don't care who knows we're together." 

That night when they made love, it was more tender than ever before, Malfoy touching Harry like he was admiring a fine work of art. No . . . not Malfoy. 

"Draco," Harry said, the name slurring on his tongue as he thrust up, into the other man's warm, wet mouth. 

They slept in each other's arms that night, Draco staying the whole night through. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


Drinks. Dinner. Dancing. 

Plays and concerts. Amateur Quidditch matches. Harry and Draco started going everywhere together, or so it seemed. The papers took note, and printed their lurid speculations. And all the while, Harry felt like he was holding his breath. Surely Portree would sack Draco soon. 

Harry was feeling worse and worse about doing this to the other man, but he also felt like he had no choice. He had to know, for certain, if Quidditch was all they really had. And this was the only way, because lover or not, he couldn't really trust what Draco told him. Not on this subject. 

"I got talked to," he said glumly one night as they dined over candlelight in one of the more exclusive restaurants in wizarding London. "By my coach. About the impropriety of seeing you so much." 

It was all a lie. Harry's coach hadn't said a word, though a few of his fellow team mates had told him to be careful. The coach wouldn't risk telling Harry whom he could date or not. Not Harry, whose name sold so many tickets. Draco had been right about that. But Harry wanted to see if Draco's coach had said anything to _him_. 

Draco leaned forward over the table and caught his hand, his long fingers stroking over Harry's palm. "Do you want to break it off until the season's over? I'll miss you, but if you need to, for your career . . ." 

If only Harry could believe that the other man meant that, that he cared at all about Harry's career . . . 

"No," said Harry. What good would breaking it off do? He wanted Portree to object to them! And since Draco hadn't volunteered anything . . . "Doesn't anybody on your team have strong words to say about us?" 

Draco laughed. "Oh, sure. _Find out their secrets, Malfoy. Ask Potter to teach you that left-handed twisted dive he does . . ._ " 

"But you haven't asked," said Harry. "Not about the Cannons' plays, or strategy, or any of my Seeking techniques." 

Draco sat back, looking like his was weighing his words with care. "I . . . no, and I won't, Harry. Isn't that obvious by now? I want to tell you something. I _have_ what I was seeking. Do you understand?" 

Harry's heart sped up, even as he told himself that he was an utter fool to believe. "You mean . . . me?" 

Picking up his wine glass, Draco twirled the stem between his thumb and forefinger. "I didn't know it would be like this. I thought that once I'd had you a few times I'd get over it, but . . ." He shrugged. "Probably the reason I was so obsessed with you when we were in school was because you were the one for me. But I couldn't see it, not then." 

Harry's racing heart slowed to a pulsing _thud, thud, thud._ He wanted to hear more. Even if it was all a lie, he wanted more of it. "When did you know?" 

"When you started calling me 'Draco' I was sure, but . . ." Draco smiled, the expression looking a little rueful. "I should have known before that. A long time before. There had to be a reason why most of the men I wanted seemed to have your hair. The eyes were harder . . . there was this one bloke with green eyes and dark messy hair, and I almost thought I could make it work with him, but he wasn't you. That was when I thought I'd have to do whatever it would take to get you. Even though I knew you hated my guts." 

"I still hate what you were," Harry said. "But I don't hate what you are." 

"To not hating, then," Draco said, raising his glass. "And whatever else we can make of this." 

Harry clinked his glass against Draco's, feeling thrilled yet oddly bereft inside. If he could believe Draco, then hearing things like this over wine and candlelight would be perfect. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


Portree and Chudley were slated to face each other in the championship match. Harry was dreading it. Was Draco going to play another nasty trick on him, out on the pitch, and laugh in Harry's face afterwards? Tell him what a fool he'd been, playing into Draco's hands? Harry was _more_ sensitised to his touch, not less, now that they were lovers. 

They didn't talk about the championship game looming. No point. 

They were the only ones. Chatter about it filled the Cannons' locker room, every day before and after practice. When Harry walked down the street, people called out good wishes. And when he went out alone after practice one day, it was the talk of the pub. 

He could have done without a reporter sliding into the booth with him. Not Skeeter, but they were all Skeeters, as far as Harry was concerned. "Get out," he said in reply to her breathy, "Buy me a drink?" 

The slender, willowy woman was hardly deterred. "I've been tracking Portree this season. Their dashing new Seeker. Quite the looker, isn't he? Pity he's not interested in women--" 

"Do you have a point?" 

"I overheard a conversation I thought might interest you." 

Despite his disdain for her kind, that _did_ catch Harry's interest. He tried not to show it, but he never had been very good at hiding his feelings. She probably knew. 

"The reserve Chaser for Portree seems to think that Draco Malfoy has an ulterior motive for chasing _you_ ," she cooed, eyeing Harry closely. "Actually, several of his team mates concur. Apparently he got special permission from his franchise to pursue a liaison with you. He promised them the championship on a platter after that match he bested you at. Said he knew just how to best keep you off balance, and if they'd leave him to it, he'd have you so begging for his favours that winning against Portree, again, would be the last thing on your mind." 

Harry's heart sank, but he tried not to let a bloodsucking reporter see as much. "Gossip." 

"I have several confirmed sources of the same information--" 

"People lie." 

Her eyes--grey like Draco's--took on a calculating glint. "So they do. Strange, though, isn't it, that Malfoy hasn't received a reprimand of any sort for fraternising with the enemy, as it were?" 

"I haven't got one, either." 

"Oh, but your service to the wizarding world renders you a bit immune, you know. No reason in the world why Draco Malfoy should be special, unless he's playing you for a fool and his team knows it--" 

Harry stood up and walked out. He couldn't think, not in front of her, but the moment he was on his own, horrible thoughts came back to haunt him. Draco's insistence that they go out in public . . . had he wanted to make sure his coach knew that his plot was underway? Did he _want_ media attention, the more the better, so that his team could see that the plan was working? 

No _wonder_ he'd been so unconcerned about losing his job! 

Harry wanted to have it out with him, right then and there, but he didn't know where Draco--ha, where _Malfoy_ \--was, and he wasn't going to wait for him at Malfoy Manor. Harry had never been there, despite Malfoy opening the Floo to him, and he wasn't going to start, now. 

Malfoy came by later that night, as often happened. Dressed in close-cut robes that showed his lean body to advantage, he looked like everything Harry wanted. 

But that was an illusion. Like all of this had been an illusion. 

Harry had a lot to say to him, but somehow, what came out of his mouth instead was, "Get out." 

Malfoy didn't listen any more than the reporter had. "What's the matter?" 

The floodgates opened. "You're a fucking liar, that's what the matter is. Always wanted me, did you? Oh, _that_ explains why you told your team's owners that you knew just how to get to me! Well, it was all for nothing, Malfoy. You may have had me, but you're not getting the championship!" 

"Harry--" 

"Did you or did you not tell them that?" 

"Of course I told them that!" Draco brushed his hair back from his face. "They'd have told me not to see you, otherwise, and I wanted to! I made it up, Harry!" 

"Sure you did." 

"Look, I had to," said Draco in tones that sounded desperate. "Quidditch was all we had in common, at first. I couldn't risk getting thrown off my team. But all I wanted was _you_ , Harry, not the Snitch." 

"That explains why you played such a dirty trick on me to _get_ the Snitch, that time!" 

"I _told_ you, I couldn't resist. I'd been dreaming of you for years, and finally you were within reach! So I touched you. And it was more than I could have hoped. It affected you. _I_ affected you. I took the Snitch because I knew how much that would bother you. You wouldn't ignore me after that!" 

That was in fact how it had all worked out, but that only made Harry more angry. He _had_ been a fool. A complete fool. And yet Draco thought to fool him again! "So it was all about me, all along? Right!" 

"But it was, Harry," said Malfoy, looking fractured by then. It tugged at Harry's heartstrings, but he hardened himself against the feeling. "Don't you know, don't you understand? It was _all_ about you from the very first. The only reason I tried out for Portree was because I thought that once we were in the league together, you'd have to talk to me. But you didn't, not at camp, not at that party. And then our teams were finally matched and I had a chance to get close to you and make you notice me, and--" 

"I don't want to hear any more of this," said Harry. "This is my house and I already told you once to get out. The Floo won't let you in, in future. All you wanted was to double-cross me, and--" 

"I _should_ double-cross you," snarled Malfoy. "I deserve better than this, Harry! You ought to have a little faith!" 

"Like Dumbledore had faith? If not for you, he'd be alive still!" 

"Snape killed him, not me!" 

"Snape didn't have much choice! You're a murderer as sure as if it was your wand that did it. Now, GET OUT!" 

That time, Malfoy did. 

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


Two days later, Harry was hovering above the pitch again, his chin held high, his whole body feeling like a chunk of ice. Cold, clear though. That was it, he frantically told himself. 

_Malfoy's a horrible person. Malfoy can't affect you, not now. No matter what nasty trick he tries, this time._

The trouble was, Harry wasn't sure he was right about that. 

"And last but not least, playing Seeker for the Pride of Portree, Nora Dunnagan!" boomed the announcer. 

_Nora Dunnagan?_

Harry was so surprised that he almost missed the release of the Snitch. Where was Malfoy? What was going on? Had he been hurt at Portree's last practice? Was he-- 

"And Dunnagan appears to have spotted the Snitch!" 

The announcer's gleeful tones snapped Harry out of his daze. He had a job to do, and he was damned if thoughts of Malfoy were going to keep him from doing it. 

The match passed in a blur, the Cannons finally winning by a wide margin. 

"Well-played," said Dunnagan as she hovered on her broom and shook Harry's hand. 

Harry couldn't help himself. "Where's Malfoy?" 

"He came in to play this morning, and even dressed, and then, just after you were announced, suddenly refused to fly against you, ever again. Coach argued with him as long as he could, but Draco wouldn't budge." She shrugged. "Anyway, he's sacked. I don't think he'll ever get a place on another team, after something like this. At least, that was what coach was screaming. But you know, I got the feeling that Draco really didn't care." 

_Malfoy had refused to fly against him . . ._

Harry didn't understand, not really. 

"He said to tell you he'd be at the Manor if you wanted to see him," added Dunnagan. 

Harry nodded that he'd heard, and headed down to the pitch. The whole time he showered and changed, all he could think about was Malfoy. Why had Malfoy refused to fly? 

There was only one way to find out. Holding his breath, Harry flooed to Malfoy Manor. 

He stumbled out into a large, opulent room hung with tapestries. Malfoy was sitting in a chair in the corner, staring at the fireplace. He looked up with dead eyes when Harry stepped forward. "You came. I wasn't sure you would." 

Feeling pulled forward by invisible strings, Harry walked toward Malfoy and looked down at him. "Why didn't you play?" 

A bitter smile ghosted over Malfoy's lips. "I should have, after the things you said. I was going to. I was going to win the same way I won last time, because you deserved it after the things you said. But then, at the last moment, I knew I couldn't really do it. That wasn't the plan." 

The ice around Harry's heart had been cracking ever since he'd heard the name Nora Dunnagan, but now the cracks were widening, deepening into fissures. Feeling like he might fall into them and be lost forever, Harry dropped to his knees. "What was the plan, then?" 

Draco blinked. "Just what I told you, Harry. It was only ever about you, all of it. I didn't even want to play professional Quidditch. It was all just a way to reach you." He looked down at his hands, shaking his head. "I told my team I was getting close to you so we could win, but that was a lie. I was planning to fly against you fair and square in the championship. Anything else would be a way to lose you. I'm not stupid. But I was very angry, earlier, and I knew that if I went out onto the pitch and saw you, I'd probably lose my temper. I'd cheat, like before. So I told them I couldn't go." 

Harry reached out and took hold of Draco's forearms, stroking both of them the way Draco had once stroked his. "But you're not angry, now?" 

"It just seems pointless." 

"You're upset that they sacked you?" 

Draco yanked his arms back. "You don't listen, do you? I didn't care about the team, or playing, or anything except you. Not that I expect you to believe me. You made your opinion of me all too clear." 

"I . . ." Harry swallowed, wishing he could go back and have more faith. "You hate me, now?" 

"No, that's your job." 

"I'm supposed to hate myself?" 

"Very funny." 

"I don't hate you," Harry whispered. "I think . . . maybe I'm only just now starting to know you. I thought you were using me, but I was the one using you. That was the way it started. I just wanted to get used to you, so you couldn't pull another trick on me during competition." 

"Oh, I knew that. I suggested it. I wanted you any way I could have you." 

"Yeah, but . . ." Harry cleared his throat. "Um, lately I've been willing to go out in public because I was hoping you'd get sacked for it. And that way I'd know if you were in this for me, or for Quidditch." 

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Oh, now that is nasty. I don't know that I should forgive you for that." 

Harry gulped. 

"But seeing as I got myself sacked anyway, I suppose I can." Draco grinned then, just a little. 

"So, you're all right, then?" 

"Even if they hadn't sacked me, I was resigning at the end of the season. I have enough to do to manage the Malfoy holdings. And the rich-boy-plays-Quidditch routine was getting a little old. I think I understand now, why you hate the press." 

"No, I meant . . . _we're_ all right?" 

Draco stood up and drew Harry up with him, moving close so they stood chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip. "I think you had it right when you said we were really only just starting to know each other, Harry. We need to start over again. I can't change what I did, all through that awful last year I had at Hogwarts, but I'm not that same frightened boy who did those things. If you can't accept that, and move forward with the man I am now, then . . . I think I'd rather know that, now." 

Harry saw the truth, then. He needed to let go of all the pain. He needed to forgive, and he never really had. But now, maybe he could. 

"I'd like to move forward with you," he said, leaning forward to press his lips against Draco's. 

"I suppose your finally coming here is proof of it," murmured Draco before opening his mouth to kiss Harry back. It was a long time before they broke apart. By then, Harry was laying full length atop Draco, there on the lush rug covering the floor, grinding their hips together. 

"Oh, no," said Draco, rolling out from under him. "We started with sex last time." 

"I thought we started with flying." 

Draco ignored him and stood up, arranging his clothes. "This time you have to want me for more than that. You have to woo me properly. You have to earn me." 

"Playing hard to get?" 

_I'm not playing,_ Harry expected Draco to say. 

"Well, yes," said Draco, batting his eyes. "Is it working?" 

Harry grinned and scrambled to his feet. "I think so, yes. So, shall we start with a dinner out?" 

Draco's expression fell. "Actually, you should really be celebrating with your team. British Isles champions. Nothing to sniff at." 

He was right, Harry knew. "You come along, then." 

"Oh, the press'll _love_ that." 

"Fuck." 

"Hmm, I suppose I could float a rumour that I've been considering buying the Cannons," said Draco thoughtfully. "Actually, that's not such a bad idea. Their revenue will continue to go up, as long as you stay on the team. Anyway, that would explain my abrupt departure from Portree. And wouldn't it be great fun to see the press get in a huge froth over the intrigue?" 

Harry glared. "You're _not_ buying the Cannons. I absolutely forbid it." 

"Maybe I'd rather buy Portree," mused Draco. "That could be amusing, considering the things the coach was yelling at me. I'd love to see the look on his face when _I_ sack _him._ Oh, what great fun! The press'll say that I only ever played in the first place because I was doing market research, determining up close who were the best players in the league. Oh, I know! I'll lure you over to work for my franchise, instead!" 

"The party, Draco," said Harry, laughing. He could tell already that life with Draco would never be dull. "Are you coming along?" 

"Try to keep me away from you. Playing hard to get is a little overrated, you know. One more kiss, and I'll go and get ready." 

But one thing led to another, and one kiss led to a lot more. In the end, they were late for the party. Verylate. The press was all abuzz when they arrived together, arm in arm. They snapped photo after photo. 

But for once, Harry didn't care. Not even when Draco smiled brightly for the cameras and announced that he'd left the players' league in order to concentrate on Quidditch investment opportunities and that he might be buying a team and looking to recruit a certain championship Seeker. 

Not even when the headline the next morning read, _The Chosen One Chosen Again._

  
\--  
\--  
\--  


Fin 


End file.
